Born on the Fifth of July
by justicemuffins
Summary: Standing before a marble headstone, Steve has to wonder: Just who in the world was Phil Coulson? (Origin Story)
1. Prologue

"He never talked about himself if he could help it."

Steve drags his gaze away from the lettering on the slab of marble before them to the archer standing at his side. Clint's expression is haggard, troubled. His eyes never leave the headstone.

"You could pick up on some things, sure. I worked long enough and close enough with him to get to know him a bit… but anything that came before me? I've never been able to get it out of him."

"He liked his privacy," Steve infers.

"Coulson knew everything about everyone. He was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secret keeper. But no one knew anything about him. I think he liked it that way, you know, that air of mystery to keep the new recruits in line," Clint murmurs. "But at the end of the day? I guess I just have to stand here and say I don't really know the guy any more than you do. And now I don't suppose I ever will."

Steve's brow furrows as he watches Clint turn and walk away from the grave. Natasha's walking toward him. She reaches out, fingertips ghosting over the archer's elbow as she passes and Steve swears Clint flinches. His eyes follow Clint until the man disappears behind trees and bushes and he turns his attention instead to the redhead beside him.

"Agent Barton says he didn't really know Agent Coulson that well," Steve says.

"He's exaggerating," Natasha insists. "Strike Team Delta was… close. We've all been to Coulson's home. Crashed there. Licked wounds there. Ate breakfast there. It was an informal base of operations outside of S.H.I.E.L.D."

She tilts her head.

"But I understand what he means. Phil never was one to volunteer information about himself," Natasha admits.

"So no one knows anything about him prior to when they began working for S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Steve asks with some perplexity.

Natasha considers the question.

"Fury," she reports. "Two or three others max. He was good at keeping secrets; even more-so when they were his own."

She pats his bicep.

"Try not to dwell on it, Cap. You'll get soaked and those cards will be in even worse shape than they are now."

As she turns away, her fingers brushing gently over the top of the marker, Steve doesn't bother asking how she knew he had the bloodied trading cards in his pocket. He blinks as the first drops of rain his him and, shrugging further into his jacket against the unseasonably cool wind, looks to the headstone.

Just who in the world was Phil Coulson?


	2. Little Things

_I was born at midnight on July 5__th__, 1966, over a half-hour after my twin brother, Peter. I was constantly reminded of the fact over the years; how I had just missed sharing the birth day of my idol and that the honor had gone instead to Pete, who could have cared less. I had two older brothers at that time: Martin, who was five years older, and Robert, who was seven years older. My parents were a young, happy couple, despite the fact that they'd just been blessed with two more mouths to feed which, at the time, I couldn't have known would be a problem._

* * *

"How come he's smaller than the other one, Da?" five year-old Martin asks of his father.

Kevin Coulson looks from the bundle in his arms down to his second son, giving the boy his signature half-smile. Martin's blue-grey eyes are wide and inquisitive as he clutches his father's pant leg, trying to get a better look at his newest younger brother while his mother and elder brother, Robert, fuss over the other baby. Careful not to disturb the bundle, Kevin sits in the nearby armchair and, cradling the baby in one arm, pats his leg with his free hand.

Martin wastes no time in scrambling into his father's lap. Kevin carefully oversees the handling of the newborn, providing support as he allows Martin to hold his little brother.

"Well, sport, things don't always go the way they're supposed to," he explains gently.

"He's _really_ tiny, though," Martin answers in a stage whisper.

Kevin runs a hand through the five year-old's brown hair. "That's how you know he's going to do something good one day."

Martin looks up at his father questioningly.

"Who d'you think keeps the world running, huh? It's the little guy, that's who. Now, he doesn't always get thanked for it and it's not always the easy thing to do, but at the end of the day, you get to come home knowing you did the right thing," Kevin explains. He looks briefly to his wife and other sons before focusing his attention to the ones in his lap. "That's what's important. You do right by others."

"Captain 'Merica was little once, right Da?" Martin asks, staring fixatedly at the baby in his arms.

Kevin chuckles. "He sure was, kiddo."

Martin leans in close enough to whisper in the baby's ear, but it's loud enough for his father to hear.

"Da tells me 'bout Captain 'Merica all the time. He's gonna tell you, too, Phil. And maybe if you try real hard, it won't matter that you're small. But you gotta try _real_ hard and maybe wish on a star, too, because Mama says that helps. Don't worry, though. I'm gonna protect you while you're small… 'cause I'm bigger'n you and you're my little brother and nobody's gonna do anything bad while I'm around, 'kay?"

Kevin just lets Martin keep on talking and lets Phil go on sleeping. They're raising two fine boys, he and Julia, and he has no doubt that they'll be raising two more. Though there are clouds on their horizon, he stays in the moment and, for a time, they cease to be a worry.

* * *

_Martin always made a point of telling me that we were happy back then. I suppose I should take his word for it because I can't exactly claim to remember anything at that age. But Martin always was the optimist, always able to make you look back on the past through rose-colored glasses. The facts on paper have always said otherwise, but maybe I'm just too bitter to read between the lines. _

* * *

Kevin closes the door behind him as quietly as he can, securing all the locks before dragging himself up the stairs, swearing that . There are a stack of bills on the kitchen table, unopened, and he sees that the pile has gotten larger since he'd last looked. He's only just returned from an overtime shift that wouldn't even begin to cover any of them.

Ever since Julia had gotten sick, ever since the twins had been born, things had just gone downhill. Trying to raise four growing boys on top of his wife's medical bills meant they were spending money they didn't have and living in a too-small apartment that they couldn't afford. But what else could they do?

Though his stomach insists he put something other than cheap coffee in it, he makes his way to the boys' room. It's very late—or early, depending upon how one looks at it—so he knows they're all asleep. Carefully, quietly, he edges the door open and sneaks inside.

For a minute, he forgets what he'd been worrying over when he gets a good look at each of his sons. He tiptoes silently over to Robert's bed, shaking his head at how his oldest son has managed to throw all the covers off of himself. It looks like a whirlwind had come in, what with how they lie in a twisted heap on the floor. He stoops, untangling the pile and setting them right before draping them back over Robert, whose only reaction is to snort once and roll onto his side.

He continues on to Martin. His second son lies curled on his side, facing the door. His expression is soft, open. He doesn't rouse when Kevin stoops and brushes his mop of brown hair aside to place a kiss upon his forehead. His son stays lost in whatever dream he's wrapped up in and Kevin is happy to leave him to it.

His last stop is the crib where the twins sleep. Peter is out like a light, sucking on his pacifier even in sleep with his baby blanket draped lightly over him. Kevin reaches into the crib, gently smoothing the baby's soft, brown hair so the side. When he looks over to the smaller of the twins, he can't help but smile. Phil is awake, watching him silently with wide, blue-grey eyes. Martin and the twins have their mama's eyes, something he's always been delighted by.

"Phillip James Coulson, what are you doing up at this hour?" Kevin whispers.

Phil sucks on his pacifier, continuing to gaze up at his father until Kevin reaches in and scoops him up. The young man, not yet even thirty years of age, heaves a great sigh when the infant tucks his head to the junction between his father's neck and shoulder. Kevin sways with the baby in his arms, rubbing his young son's back.

"Not a big talker are you?" he murmurs.

Phil, of course, says nothing, just continues to cling to his father.

"That's okay. Too many people talking these days without saying a damn thing anyway," Kevin says. He purses his lips in thought. "No telling your mama I've been cursing in front of you. She'll have my head on a platter."

He continues to rock on his heels for a moment before exhaustion wins out and he heads towards the den.

"Come on, now, why don't you have a sit down with your old man," he says.

Kevin eases himself into his favorite chair, propping Phil against his chest. He continues to rub the infant's back as Phil grabs a fistful of his uniform, tugging and playing with buttons, his badge, anything he can get ahold of.

"You like that, huh?" Kevin hums. "You know, you come from a long line of blue bloods. I think Marty wants to continue the tradition but Lord knows he'll give your poor mama a heart attack if he does."

Phil gurgles around his pacifier, the noise sounding almost as though he agrees.

"I don't know what it is, but none of us can seem to get out of this damn town. I grew up here, your mama grew up here… It's like the Irish got off the boat and decided this was it," Kevin says thoughtfully, shaking his head. "Townies through and through."

It's a strange sort of duality—resenting the fact that this place is your home while simultaneously being fiercely proud of it. But that's the attitude he's come to expect from Charlestown. Boston is a great city, undoubtedly, but Charlestown just seems to be… inescapable. You grow up there, you go to school there, you get a job there, you marry someone from there, you have kids there, you grow old and you die there.

Because of this, there's a great dislike of outsiders. And the ones that do get out? If they ever come back, it's like they'd never lived there at all. A Townie's a Townie only so long as they live in the Town. By leaving you break the unspoken code; you become one of them, the outsiders, the unwelcome. You're a foreigner.

More-so if you're not of Irish descent.

It's a very tight-knit community and, in most cases, that might be a good thing. But Charlestown is different. Thankfully the McLaughlin Brothers aren't in the picture anymore, but when you've got the Winter Hill Gang still running the show, things are more than a little trying. Charlestown has a fierce code of silence which, coupled with the number of dirty cops in the area, makes Kevin's work remarkably difficult. He often wonders if he should just give it up, go for a job at Boston Sand and Gravel. He wonders if he should just pack them all up and move out of this godforsaken place. But the sad fact of the matter is that they don't have anywhere to go or the means to leave.

So he goes to work, night after night, working double shifts and details, praying that it's not the night he gets shot or beaten to death or dumped in the Charles River wearing cement shoes. Because if that happens, they may as well take his wife and sons with him; they'll as good as kill them, anyway.

"It's a tough world out there, sport. You'll learn that pretty early on. But the best you can do is keep your chin up and don't let 'em see you cry," Kevin relates. "And if they tell you it can't be done, all the more reason to prove them wrong."

He closes his eyes, a steady hand keeping Phil tucked securely to him.

"You just have to keep going. Keep pushing and don't listen to the naysayers. There's always a way, if you're willing to work for it."

He cracks an eye open and looks down. The child is taking deep, even breaths, his eyes shut. Kevin sighs, presses a kiss to the top of Phil's head and remains in that position. His thoughts travel to a simple white business card with nothing but an address on it buried at the bottom of his underwear drawer.

"Sometimes it's hard. Sometimes doing what's right, what's necessary… it asks you to make sacrifices. What kind of man you are depends on whether or not you're willing to make those sacrifices."

He catches himself and rolls his eyes. Listen to him, talking to a baby like he has any idea what his daft old man is rambling on about. If anything, he's talking to himself at this point. He closes his eyes once again, focusing on the feeling of his son in his arms, that warm little weight that he helped create, and doesn't open them again until Julia finds him asleep in the chair the following morning.

* * *

"Kevin—"

"We need to consider it."

"You said yourself that you may as well have hallucinated the whole thing."

"But I didn't, Julia, and that's why we have to consider it. The pay is good. I could move you and the boys out of this neighborhood, take care of your medical bills…"

"And what about the boys? What about me? Kevin, what good is all of that if we're not allowed to be together?"

Martin stands with his ear pressed to the kitchen door, listening intently. He hears only silence following his mother's words and he frowns deeply. Is their father leaving them? Why? Where is he going? Robert, a head taller than him, presses his ear to the other side of the door.

"Can you hear what they're saying?" Martin whispers.

"I can't with you talking, doofus," Robert hisses.

"You're a doofus, doofus," Martin retorts.

"Shut your dumb mouth, you baby," Robert says, smacking him upside the head.

"Truck!"

Martin turns at the sound of the exclamation, which happens just as something collides with his foot. He glances down at the toy fire truck now lying on its side at his feet and then down the hall. Pete and Phil stand side by side, holding hands and watching them intently. The toddlers are inseparable, though he knows straight away that the cry of "Truck!" had come from Pete; Phil isn't really much of a talker. Martin smiles at his two younger brothers before looking back to Robert.

"Keep listening and tell me what you hear later. I'm gonna keep Petey and Phil distracted," Martin says.

Robert waves him off, still listening intently at the door. Martin rolls his eyes and picks up the truck, walking down the length of the hall. He holds his free hand outstretched, which Pete readily grabs ahold of, and they walk into the den. He sits the twins down and they begin playing a little make believe.

After a time, Martin notices one of the buttons on Phil's overalls has slipped.

"Aw, Phil, we gotta fix that," he says, scooting forward.

Pete happily goes on making fire engine noises, pushing the toy truck across the carpet as Martin readjusts the smaller twin's overall strap. Phil sits quietly and patiently, watching Martin's every action.

"There's that's better, huh?" Martin asks.

Phil nods his head. Martin taps his chin. Perhaps he should try getting Phil to say something? He knows Phil's seeming inability to talk worries their mama, so perhaps she'd be happier if he could coax a few out of him.

"Wanna try some words today?" Martin asks.

Phil doesn't respond, just keeps on staring at his older brother. Martin presses onward regardless.

"Can you say truck?" he asks, pointing to the toy Pete is currently pushing across the carpet.

Phil follows his movement, looking to his win and the toy fire truck. He lifts a hand and mimics Martin, pointing but remaining silent. Martin laughs when Phil gives him a hopeful look, almost as though to ask if that's what he'd wanted.

"Can you say it? Truck?" Martin asks.

Phil just points again.

"Truck," Martin repeats.

Phil makes a dissatisfied noise, but doesn't speak.

"Don't wanna say truck, huh? How about… Foot?" Martin tries, pointing to his own foot.

"Fffff," Phil says, poking Martin's shoe.

"Hey! That's close! Almost, it's foot. _Foot_. Fffffffffffffffffff_oot_," Martin repeats, drawing it out.

"Fffff," Phil tries again.

"Foot!" Martin says with a grin.

"Ffffff… uck. Fuck!" Phil says enthusiastically.

Martin gasps. It takes him all of three seconds to lose his composure entirely, dissolving into helpless laughter. Phil smiles, pressing his hands to his mouth and ducking his head shyly. Clearly, that's the right word. Martin's laughing, after all. And now Pete is laughing, too.

Eventually the noise draws Robert and their parents into the den. Julia looks between the boys curiously.

"Martin, what's going on in here?" she asks.

"Phil said… he said… a swear word!" Martin gasps between giggles.

"He said _what_ now?" Kevin asks.

"Fuck!" Phil cries, his hands tossed up in the air and a big smile stretched over his face.

Robert howls with laughter as Julia folds her arms over her chest, turning an angry eye on her husband.

"_Kevin_," she says accusingly.

The man raises his hands with a look of bewilderment on his face. "What? What did I do?"

"Well, where else would he have learned to fucking say that?" Julia bites back.

She colors immediately when she realizes her mistake. Okay, so maybe he wasn't the only one who had a slip now and then in the language department. In the end, it takes nearly twenty minutes to calm the boys down, but the impromptu bit of laughter seems to have provided a sorely needed mood boost.


End file.
